


Murders, mistletoe and a bit of holiday cheer

by Ragnild



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 17:58:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragnild/pseuds/Ragnild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Christmas multiple murder case must be solved. During this Sherlock is annoyed over Christmas, John gets sent out to run errands for Mrs. Hudson and their landlady is enjoying the seasonal cheer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Murders, mistletoe and a bit of holiday cheer

**Author's Note:**

> If it weren’t for my friends and my beta, this would have been impossible. Thanks guys <3 Any mistakes left are entirely my own.
> 
> This fic was written for LJ's Holmestice of 2010 for Prettybirdy979.

It was a dreary Monday when Sherlock Holmes claimed yet another corpse from St. Bart's morgue for his experiments.

That is, dreary would have been the right description of that particular Monday at the end of November, was it not for the fact that something entirely surprising had happened. While Sherlock was running every imaginable tox screen on some poor bloke’s corpse, a quite unusual poison was discovered in the blood work of a person who had apparently died of a heart attack.

  
As the detective had excitedly burst into DI Lestrade’s office, claiming they had a serial killer on their hands, the DI was baffled to say the least. There had been no questionable deaths in the past month or so that could be linked together. When three, at the first glance, quite inconspicuous autopsy reports were pressed into his hands he just frowned.

Just when he was about to tell the detective off for interrupting an important phone call, which he had to hang up on, three pieces of paper that each contained the result of a specific drugs test, were handed to him.

Highlighted on each piece of paper in a bright fluorescent yellow, of which the marker had likely been borrowed from Molly’s desk, was the word _phoratoxin B._

“My god, what must it be like in those funny little brains of yours! It’s no wonder you need me. Now, let me see the case files.”

\--- --- ---

When John came home, he had expected to find his flat mate sulking on their sofa. This wasn´t the case however; Sherlock seemed to have cleared the clutter of a previous experiment off of their kitchen table and was now looking at what to be police reports.

“Sherlock? What’s going on?”

“Ah! John, you’re home. Excellent. Tell me, have you ever seen poisoning by phoratoxin?”

“Phoratoxin?” John looked slightly baffled. “You mean phoratoxin B? As in mistletoe?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock replied, wearing an impatient expression, clearly annoyed by John’s comparatively slow thought processes

“The first and third victim are connected; they both worked with _Delicatecious_ \- an entirely pretentious French inspired catering company. Thompson, the first victim, owned the catering company, whereas Miss Jennings simply used to work there. However she stopped working for them for some unknown reason.”

“And the second victim?” John asked and Sherlock’s brow furrowed slightly.

“I haven’t found a link yet, but given the connection between the other two, logically, there _must_ be one...” Sherlock trailed off.

“Would you mind if I had a look at these?” John said while he finally took off his coat.

“Hm? Oh, no...” came the distracted reply. John took his time to make both of them a nice cup of tea and have a look at the case files.

\--- --- ---

When John had gone up to bed, Sherlock had still been pacing around the sitting room. He had been thinking about this for at least the better part of the evening and aside from the mistletoe poisoning, the catering company was the only factor the victims had in common, but how could Mrs. Henley be linked to it?

The only proper way to get the facts would be to visit the family homes of the victims to see if there were any other connecting factors. He decided it would be best to do so first thing in the morning. For now, he would occupy his mind by taking to his violin and playing a deviously complicated piece - it always did help his thinking process.

\--- --- ---

It was well into the evening when he returned home the next day, thinking about the victims and their circumstances. Aside from the catering service connection between the first and third victim, there seemed to be nothing else; there were no crazy family members, no jilted lovers, no other person they had all seemed to have come into contact with - nothing of the usual sort.

It was extremely galling; he hated it when he couldn’t see the bigger picture. He was close to thinking about sulking on the sofa again as he turned the key in the lock, but when the door swung open, he lost all thought of that. Instead, he found himself absolutely horrified.

There were Christmas decorations. Everywhere.

He should have known when he saw the wreath hanging from the door. He knew Mrs. Hudson liked to celebrate the holiday flamboyantly and assumed it was likely her fault everything around the hallway was decked out in gaudy looking angels, tinsel and other assorted Christmas ornaments.

It was because Sherlock had learned to tolerate Mrs. Hudson fairly well that he didn’t immediately proclaim her decorations rubbish and began tearing them down. It was the last straw however, when he reached the flat. His skull was wearing a Santa hat.

His skull was wearing a _Santa hat_.

“Mrs. Hudson!” the detective yelled. “Please explain why my skull is wearing that that.... travesty.”

“Oh, Sherlock dear, you’re back! Do you like the Christmas decorations we put up? Aren’t they just lovely?”

“We...” It wasn’t even a question.

“Yes. John, the dear, helped me put all these up. Isn’t it wonderful? I think he bought that lovely Christmas hat as well. Have you seen your tree yet?” Mrs. Hudson prattled on happily.

After Sherlock had ranted at Mrs. Hudson about how he despised Christmas, that it was a pointless consumerist celebration lingering on from equally pointless religious festivals long since sidelined for cheap, tacky gifts and gluttony, he found a note on the table in John's untidy handwriting stating that the man had gone out for groceries. Typical.

Somewhere in the middle of his rant Mrs. Hudson had wandered away, to straighten out some exceedingly ugly crocheted rug things she only doled out for special occasions apparently. He felt slighted by her taking off, or he would have, were it not for the fact that he was a high functioning sociopath.

\--- --- ---

When John came home he found that Sherlock had finally got around to the business of actually sulking on the sofa. The detective had turned his back towards John as soon as he'd stepped through the door. He had also removed the Santa hat from the skull, John noted absently. It didn’t matter though; he had plenty more hats where that came from.

When John put down a fresh cup of tea on the table in front of Sherlock, the sleuth paused in his sulking a little.

“I despise Christmas.” Sherlock said and then proceeded to repeat his perfectly logical rant on the uselessness of the celebration.

“So I take it you haven’t found the killer yet then?” John asked after the detective finished. John hadn’t actually known all the facts Sherlock had used in his rant and he wasn’t quite sure if he’d wanted to know them either. The detective’s outburst had shocked and annoyed him somewhat, but he supposed he must be becoming somewhat desensitized to Sherlock’s regular rants. He wasn’t quite as shocked as he probably should have been.

Sherlock just looked at him with an expression of irritation that said ‘would we still be here if I had?’ and John let it slide. He had looked over the case files for himself and hadn’t been able to discern any other connections aside from that catering company either, though he'd thought Sherlock, consulting detective and all, might have made a little headway in his absence.

“I’ll just get some tea shall I?” John said as he was about to wander towards the kitchen.

“Bring me my phone while you’re at it.” Came the reply and John sincerely hoped Sherlock wasn’t about to start another Christmas-hate fuelled rant when he put another Santa hat on the skull on his way to get their tea and his flatmate’s cellular.

\--- --- ---

Two more uneventful days passed by in which Sherlock bemoaned the ‘garish’ Christmas decorations, John and Mrs. Hudson for hanging them around the flat and the case, which proved to be more annoying than he’d expected.

When Lestrade’s call came two days later, John was relieved. He supposed he shouldn’t be relieved that another body had been tested positive for phoratoxin poisoning, but it kept his flatmate occupied, which was good since the detective was starting to drive John spare with violin concertos at ridiculous hours.

The fourth victim was a 29 year old male. Mr. Guilford had been found in his own home by his casual girlfriend, who had decided to swing by after three days without answers to her calls, emails or texts.

Sherlock had pestered Lestrade to see the evidence they had taken from the crime scene even though not everything had been examined yet. Anderson had been extremely annoyed when John and Sherlock had shown up and the detective had strode around the lab like he owned the place. Lestrade had told Anderson to leave Sherlock alone however, after he had accused the detective of tampering with his evidence. Anderson did stop interfering after that, albeit reluctantly, but stayed nearby, still glaring angrily at them every so often.

Anderson’s angry glares only seemed to spur Sherlock on and after some pacing and mumbling, quite suddenly Sherlock was much more animated - the expression on his face was rather like the cat that had got the cream, in John's opinion.

“Sherlock?” John prompted; he could practically see the cogs whirring frantically in the detective's brain as he connected all the dots.

“Yes, of course!” the detective enthused, while rapidly gesturing towards the door and then said: “John, we need to go.”

With that, he practically dragged John from the labs eyes glinting, face strangely alight. Sherlock strode off quickly and John had to try to keep up with the detective.

  
When they ended up knocking on James Henley’s door, John was slightly confused. They had already talked to Mrs. Henley’s son and his flatmate hadn’t been - civil to put it lightly. When the door opened, he couldn’t say he blamed the man for his newly soured expression.

“You again?” Mr. Henley said. “Haven’t you done enough already?”

“Oh - erm... we do apologize,” John muttered apologetically, “but we have a few more things we would like to ask you- if you don’t mind.”

Sherlock just raised an eyebrow at him and John prayed that the sleuth would at least make some attempt at being civil.

Mr. Henley looked entirely displeased at that, but stepped aside to let them in.

He offered them a seat and John took it, feeling completely uncomfortable; the last time they had spoken to Mr. Henley Sherlock had gravely insulted the man and his recently deceased mother and John had spent at least half an hour profusely apologizing for the detective’s behaviour.

His flatmate seemed to be oblivious to the tension, however and had started to inspect the sitting room. A while later he paused in front of a picture frame, studying it intently, while John struggled to keep the conversation going - he was as oblivious as Henley about what exactly it was the detective was looking for.

“You work for Uni Corp if I’m not mistaken?” Sherlock interrupted.

Uni Corp was known to be a well-established research company. They spent a lot of time and money on new innovations and it had paid off quite well in the past; the company was known worldwide and had branch offices throughout Europe and Asia. Their headquarters was based in London.

  
“I...yes, that’s correct,” Mr. Henley said somewhat stiffly. “but what does that have to do with my mother?” He was frowning and still didn’t look particularly happy with them.

Sherlock muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘simpleton’ and John did his best not to cringe.

“Ah, thank you for your time Mr. Henley.” John said when Sherlock’s answer didn’t seem to be forthcoming. In fact, Sherlock seemed set on ignoring the protestations and queries the man threw at him and then let himself out of the flat without another word. John, for lack of a better option, followed the detective, leaving a thoroughly confused and possibly very angry Mr. Henley behind.

  
\--- --- ---

Mr. Guilford’s girlfriend had been reduced to tears within minutes of John and more importantly, Sherlock entering her sitting room. Lestrade had told them to refrain from talking to her unless it was absolutely necessary for solving the case. Apparently Sherlock deemed the situation as having reached that stage and John found himself in an entirely uneasy position yet again.

While John tried to soothe the poor girl Sherlock had taken a look about the flat and seemed increasingly agitated as he stalked around the room. Then the detective had asked her if any of her relatives, or any of Mr. Guilford’s for that matter, worked for Uni Corp.

“I ... I don’t know. James wasn’t very close to most of his family.” She told them, playing with the hem of her shirt nervously. “The only family he talked to was his aunt. I could give you the address, if you think that would be useful.?”

John wasn’t sure if the girl was just trying to be helpful or if he was trying to get them out of her hair as soon as possible. They had gotten all the information they needed though, and Sherlock’s only comments as they made their way outside were about the atrocious traffic at this time of the day.

\--- --- ---

After their ‘lovely’ chat with Mr. Guilford’s aunt and another Googling session on _Delicatecious_ later, Sherlock was sure he was on the verge of solving this mystery.

All the victims were in some way connected to Uni Corp; Mrs. Henley and Mr. Guilford had family working for the corporation while Mr. Thompson and Miss Jennings had both worked on the evening Delicatecious catered the food for the company’s annual Christmas party.

  
The only thing stopping Sherlock and John from visiting Uni Corp that very same day was the fact that it was already nearing six o’clock and the place would be closed for the day. John didn’t feel particularly like breaking in and getting arrested, thank you very much.

When they returned to 221b Sherlock was utterly horrified once more; there, on top of his skull was perched another Santa hat. He stood there for some time, spluttering indignantly about the injustice of it all.

“ _Why_ is my skull wearing another one of those monstrosities?” Sherlock’s voice sounded oddly flat in his annoyance.

“Oh, you know, in the spirit of the holiday and all that,” came the smug reply. “And of course the fact you seem to _like_ them so much. Mrs. Hudson’s absolutely delighted over it, says it’s a vast improvement.”

Before Sherlock could burst out into a full tirade again John just smirked at him and moved away to start cooking dinner.

Sherlock swore to himself he would ritually burn the hats once they were done with this case. For now he would settle for being as annoying as humanly possible with his violin. John would likely be very unhappy with him in the morning and he might even refuse to make him tea but Sherlock felt it would be well worth it.

\--- --- ---

Uni Corp’s building was a tall, modern glass and steel contraption that wasn’t at all pleasing to the eye. It stuck out like a sore thumb between the older, less obtrusive skyscrapers in the skyline but clearly illustrated the wealth of the company. It seemed to be equipped with the most modern gadgets and eco-friendly technologies, which were likely products from the company’s own R&D department.

Sunlight would have filtered into the vast reception area in the main hall, were it not for the fact the sky was lead coloured and heavily packed with dense clouds. The receptionist wore a very pinched expression and didn’t seem at all impressed to be introduced to London’s only consulting detective – who had even heard of a consulting detective before anyway?

When Sherlock’s overall abrasive manners did more damage than good, John decided it was time to step in and try to salvage the situation; the receptionist definitely didn’t like them right now.

Assuming his friendliest smile, John gently pushed Sherlock out of the way, pleasantly surprised that the movement didn't produce any audible complaint from the detective.

“Erm... excuse me,” He ventured and the receptionist looked at him, clearly unimpressed at the disturbance. “I'm sorry about my flatmate here - he's a bit...well. He likes being pointlessly rude.”John said, gesturing at Sherlock. Then he smiled slowly, in a way that most women would perceive as adorable, hoping it would make her dislike them less.

“I was wondering if you could possibly tell us who's responsible for supervising Helen Jones and James Henley. As soon as he smiled again, widely, going for a little bit of the ‘lost puppy’ look that Sherlock had told him worked particularly well. He could see her expression changing slightly - it seemed like she didn’t dislike them outright anymore and that she might even like John.

 _Good_ , he thought as she started typing the names he’d given her in to the computer. From the corner of his eyes he could see Sherlock distinctly displeased and getting impatient. The sleuth was probably just peeved that she hadn’t known who he was, John mused and then turned his attention back to the receptionist, who didn’t seem quite as annoyed anymore.

“Both are on Dr. Roberts’ research team, but I’m afraid he’s not available right now,” she said, gazing intently at the computer. “He should be available at 3 o’clock; his appointment cancelled.”

Sherlock, who had snapped out of his gloomy mood, had walked over when John hadn’t been paying attention. “Could you arrange an appointment?” He asked somewhat impatiently.

John assumed he’d come to the conclusion that you didn’t get anywhere in this place without an appointment. You also wouldn’t get anywhere without a visitor’s pass, he noted, with a sidelong glance at security measures, which included a metal detector, one had to pass through to reach the rest of the building.

“Right,” Janice - John belatedly noticed her nametag – said. “Okay. Please be back here at a quarter to three; you’ll get a security pass so you can pass through the gate security to get to Dr. Roberts’ office.”

“Great, thank you.” John said pleasantly and she smiled slightly at him as Sherlock stalked off, irritation plain on his face, ignoring common courtesy once again.

The fact that Sherlock had dragged John out of the door to visit Uni Corp on his day off meant that he’d had to skip breakfast. He noticed his stomach growling as soon as the doors swung shut behind them and they stepped out into the cool air.

“I could really go for some breakfast now.” John told Sherlock, who’d probably started his morning (or possibly night, John wasn’t quite sure) with tea and a nicotine patch. He figured his flatmate should have to eat something sooner or later and now would likely be as good a time as any to drag him off and force him to do so before he keeled over from low blood sugar.

Sherlock looked unfazed by this and agreed with only a slightly begrudging expression about primitive needs, something for which John was glad.

After about fifteen minutes of walking they found themselves in a cheery looking café a few streets away from Uni Corp. It was nearing Christmas and the décor of the café reflected that; they were obviously trying to use some seasonal cheer to lure in more customers. John was silently amused by Sherlock’s grim expression - the man looked entirely dismayed by the Christmas tree in the corner, a wreath hanging from the door and various other Christmas decorations dotted about to liven up the place.

“If the food is as bad as these decorations are, we will be out of here quite soon.” The detective huffed sulkily, while looking over the menu even though he wasn’t likely to order anything. John just cracked a smile.

“Well, I think it looks lovely. I’m quite sure Mrs. Hudson would agree with me.” Sherlock glared at him and John ordered their food when a waitress came to take their order; full English for John, who was too hungry to think about his cholesterol right now and just scrambled egg on toast for Sherlock, who likely wouldn’t eat all of it anyway.

The food was actually quite good despite the number of customers frequenting the place and even Sherlock kept his scathing comments to a minimum. John was pleasantly surprised when he even finished half of his own meal and a mug of tea, instead of frowning down at it and making insipid remarks.

\--- --- ---

After their breakfast they hailed a cab and returned to the flat, since finding anything more productive to do in the time before their meeting with Roberts seemed unlikely

Sherlock, in his boredom, had set up their kitchen table in preparation for some form of inane experiment - John knew he usually couldn’t be bothered with serious ones when they were on the verge of settling a case. John leisurely read through the morning newspaper avoiding the sections about bank robberies and murder victims and tried to enjoy the tiny slice of his day off that hadn’t yet been claimed by Sherlock and the case they were working on.

Even the experiment couldn’t hold Sherlock’s attention for long however, and he started pacing around the sitting room whilst mulling over the case again. John could see from the stiff line of his shoulders that the detective was thinking about possible suspects, about the kind of person that could have committed the crime.

It was amazing, John mused, how the detective’s thinking process went as he solved cases or puzzles. After that first day when Sherlock used his considerable abilities to deduce John’s, then current, situation John had been amazed every time the detective did it again. After a week he found out it was quite usual for Sherlock though it took him some time to get used to it fully.

He still didn’t like Sherlock’s claim that digestion slowed him down; John had seen what the detective did to himself and if John didn’t make him eat he would let his blood sugar drop to insane levels. Sometimes he felt like Sherlock’s nanny but he was never bored when they were on a case - he did miss the action being a military doctor gave him – and took it all in stride.

When his flatmate’s pacing finally started to get on his nerves he decided it might be a good thing to do the grocery shopping instead; they were low on milk and biscuits anyway.

\--- --- ---

When John returned from yet another battle with a chip and pin machine, the experiment on the bench seemed to have melted into a sticky, fizzing puddle and Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

“Great,” John muttered to himself, rolling his eyes, “that’s never going to come off.”

It made him think about all the other pieces of furniture that had been ruined by Sherlock’s so called experiments. It was quite annoying that the man had to try everything out himself even though there had been some perfectly good books written on most of those subjects.

His train of thought and vague attempts to stop the puddle from spreading to the edge of the table and destroying the carpet were interrupted, however, by his phone buzzing.

 _Meet me at Uni Corp building in half hour - SH_

John hastily packed away the groceries and set off to meet Sherlock.

The first time his flatmate had texted him telling him to come over John had thought it was an emergency but it turned out Sherlock was just too lazy to reach for that pink phone and text the killer. After that he had also started receiving texts stating _could be dangerous_ and after that first case he knew what sort of trouble found Sherlock on a regular basis.

He was loathe to admit it, but his work at the clinic wasn’t all that exciting. He was overqualified for the job and people with the sniffles didn’t hold his interest. Every time the texts saying _dangerous_ came in John felt a thrill of excitement; they usually resulted in chasing some criminal through London and it fuelled his need for excitement.

Even when the texts didn’t say anything about possible danger, John still showed up. It was likely as his sister had told him, some skewered sense of loyalty, that had him following Sherlock. On some level John knew that but he couldn’t entirely bring himself to care; this was the most fun he’d had in a long time, even if his flatmate’s quirks were somewhat annoying at times. He knew he would put up with it all, it certainly made the word a more interesting place.

\--- --- ---

When John entered the lobby, Sherlock was already waiting for him. He was frowning and by the look of things he had been quite rude to the receptionist yet again. He supposed they were lucky that she’d already put them down for an appointment with Dr. Roberts. Janice did give him a small smile when she noticed him however, so her bad mood seemed to be solely directed at Sherlock.

“Dr. Watson,” She said, still smiling, “Mr. Holmes.” and her expression soured briefly again; her nose scrunching up in distaste. “Here are your passes - if you would please sign this form.”

She handed them both a small sheaf of papers and made them sign on three separate papers, before indicating that they should pass through to the security gate and metal detectors.  
Sherlock signed the papers in an uninterested messy scrawl, brows furrowed in distaste. John figured the man had likely seen holes in the security, which would explain the look of distaste.

They were met by Dr. Roberts’ assistant, a mousy looking young lady with a nervous laugh.

The office was up on the fifth floor and John noted that, as usual, Sherlock seemed to be was taking every detail in with keen interest

The corridors that led to the office all seemed the same to John; non-descript white walls and the occasional ugly modern art print every ten meters or so. Towering glass windows and walls filled the remaining space, giving John rushed glimpses into what seemed to be laboratories.

The office itself wasn’t very big but neat and there were only a few gadgets decorating the room; it a professional air to it. The assistant told politely to wait - Dr. Roberts would be with them shortly.

It didn’t take long for the man to arrive, however and John found himself shaking hands with a burly looking gentleman with a weather beaten face. He wondered idly if the man spent a lot of time abroad or out in his garden - that kind of too-frequently tanned skin didn't come from sitting in labs all day - and then shook himself mentally when his deducing became distinctly too Sherlockian for his own liking.

“I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Dr. John Watson.” Sherlock said with a vague gesture as an introduction. The scientist motioned for them to sit down as Sherlock - with a long suffering sigh - explained exactly what a consulting detective was.

“Well, that is quite remarkable, if I do say so myself!”Dr. Roberts had replied as Sherlock explained the situation and the fact that the killer had to be somebody working for Uni Corp. John found himself losing track of the conversation, eyes trailing to study a beam of weak sunlight as it streamed through the window and hit the wall. It wasn’t that he didn’t care who had committed the murders – far from it – it was just that usually Sherlock conversed so quickly that his leaps and bounds of conversation and logic were difficult to follow with a tired brain.

When John eventually snapped back to reality, it only took a few minutes before he was able to ascertain that Sherlock had brought the conversation around to the idea of conducting interviews of likely suspects. Roberts was obstinately refusing to believe anyone in his department could commit such a heinous crime, but thankfully, was willing to allow the investigation to continue if only, he put it, to ‘clear their names’.

He let them into a conference room further down the hall, and provided them with a computer printout of the staff he was responsible for with some further prodding. Glancing down at the list told John that even asking only basic questions, it would take at least the rest of the day to get through them all, and he sighed and settled in for what would probably be a demanding few hours

\--- --- ---

When John found that his presence in the room was not strictly required – Sherlock seemed to be handling the situation with his normal unflappable resolve – he slipped out, leaving Sherlock grilling some poor woman about her role in the company and alibi for the date of the murders.

John had set out to find them some tea to drink for a lack of anything more productive to do - Dr. Roberts’ assistant had told them there was a lounge area just across the hall where he thought he might have some luck.

The room wasn’t especially large and the kitchenette was really quite small, but it had a kettle and the teabags in the cabinet weren’t all that bad so John supposed there were worse ways to spend another free afternoon. Though free was a relevant term here wasn’t it? Free usually meant that John was with Sherlock off gallivanting through London. He enjoyed the excitement, but the relaxation of what seemed comparatively like ‘down time’ was, if he did say so himself, well earned.

John was startled out of his thoughts when someone entered. The man looked to be in his early to mid-thirties, and had an intelligent air about him, which didn’t surprise John in the slightest, as the floor he was on was one that contained only research laboratories. The man looked surprised for a moment and then moved to introduce himself.

“Hello, I’m Noel White.” He said with a polite smile. “Are you one of the detectives that came to talk to us?” He asked, with mild curiosity.

“Oh, erm, I’m not actually a detective, but Sherlock Holmes, my associate is.” John said, smiling back and reaching to shake the man’s hand. “I take it you’re one of the R&D scientists here?”

“Ah, yes, I am.” Came the reply. “It’s really a quite interesting job if you like gadgets and innovations. I suppose my heart lies in development; perfecting the inventions to the best they can be is just so fulfilling”. The man enthused.

John didn’t quite know what to make of it – it’s not like he was a complete ‘newbie’ with computers or that he didn’t know how to properly use his mobile phone, but he clearly didn’t love new gadgets and inventions as much as the other man did.

“I suppose I’m not allowed to ask what you’re working on?” John replied, secretly hoping it was classified and they could perhaps move on to less… boring topics.

As it turned out, John was in luck.

“Ah, yes, that’s confidential I’m afraid,” Mr. White replied dejectedly, as if he would have loved to share the inventions they had been working on with John. When John changed the topic however, the other man nattered on as though nothing had happened, and for this, John was glad.

Their conversation trailed off to more inconsequential things like the coming Christmas period – food and drink factored heavily into it, which John supposed was probably a sign that he was getting peckish again. John entirely forgot the tea he had been preparing.

When he’d managed to get away from the scientist, who apparently loved to talk, John was holding two fresh cups of tea which did little to cure Sherlock’s annoyance - first at John’s interruption, then, apparently, at him having taken his time.

\--- --- ---

When they finally left the building John was none the wiser and his flatmate seemed pensive about all the different people they had talked to that day. None of them had particularly stood out to John, but Sherlock would have likely noticed something important that John hadn’t and [it seemed] they would catch the killer soon enough.

His stomach growling distracted John successfully from that train of thought and he set about the process of persuading Sherlock to be dragged off for food. Lestrade, had he been here, John mused idly, probably would have made a comment about John eating and Sherlock watching him do so. He probably should have been more disturbed over that thought than he actually was, but it was one of an endless list of tiny quirks the detective had that John had simply learned to accept, so long as Sherlock made a vague effort to eat and rest at some point over the next few days. However many times he lied, he did have to admit, Sherlock coped remarkably well without food. It didn’t last, however - after the last case, Sherlock had made his way through the food in their cupboards at an almost alarming rate to catch up, much to John’s amusement. He made mental plans to order a few pizzas when they were finished and Sherlock was both exhausted and ravenous – dealing with a cranky, hungry detective was not his idea of a relaxing, enjoyable Christmas

\--- --- ---

The next morning Mrs. Hudson knocked on their door.

“John,” She said at him and smiled in a mischievous way, “would you be a dear and help an old lady out? I’m afraid the weather’s been quite hard on my hip and well...” she trailed off.

The doctor wasn’t surprised however; Mrs. Hudson had asked him if he would mind running some Christmas related errands for her while they’d been decorating the flat, and he’d agreed.

The landlady gave him a neatly written list of the things he’d need to pick up, and he tied a scarf around his neck, already heading for the peg that held his coat.

“Sherlock, I’m heading out!” He called and shrugged on his coat while waiting for a reply that he wasn’t sure would come - the detective was often so busy with his little experiment that he wouldn’t bother even grunting in response.

“Hmm? Don’t forget to bring milk.” Came the reply however and John was already thinking about which shop to head to first as he stepped outside in the cold, slightly dark day – big fat grey clouds covering the sky.

\--- --- ---

The streets surrounding the shopping centre were ornately decorated with Christmas ornaments. It gave a cheery atmosphere to the city and it had snowed the day before. It wasn’t exactly white snow anymore, but it did complete the image that came with London in winter. John hummed softly under his breath as he set about hunting for the items Mrs. Hudson had put on the list.

He supposed now would be the perfect timing to get his gift for Sherlock as well. He knew the detective didn’t like the holiday, but that didn’t mean John wouldn’t get him a gift – besides and which, Sherlock might even gain some slight pleasure in trying to decipher the contents of the wrapped package before it was opened.

Of course, there wouldn’t be any fun in getting just one serious gift for Sherlock; John planned on getting a gag present of sorts as an opener in an attempt to lighten him up. So far, he’d thought it might be funniest to get Sherlock a children’s book on the solar system or possibly a small working model of it for the desk in his bedroom.

When he’d collected most of the items on Mrs. Hudson’s list he decided to take a break. The last, item on the list was a bottle of wine. A ‘good’ bottle of red wine to be precise, and John had absolutely no idea what Mrs Hudson meant by that. He didn’t know much about wine, but he supposed good meant slightly expensive, and - he suspected that most of the variants he had tasted in the past and considered drinkable had probably been of the cheaper, supermarket variety.

 _I’m not quite sure I’ve missed this_ , he thought as he felt the snow that was clinging to his shoes melt and leak into his socks. His feet and hands felt a little numb by now, so John figured a hot drink would be in order to solve that before going wine hunting.

He found a decent looking coffee shop that wasn’t a Costa or Starbucks relatively quickly, and went in, stamping the snow from his shoes on the doormat. The air inside the shop was nice and warm and it made his frozen face sting. The man behind the counter smirked at him as he read John´s expression, face likely scrunched up from the cold still. John smiled back stiffly - his face was still tingling - and ordered a cup of tea.

He took a seat by the window and watched the people in the street passing by. It seemed a lot of people were doing some last minute Christmas shopping still and John realized how entirely lucky he was that he had ended up where he was right now, even if Sherlock hated Christmas. He grinned slightly at the thought of it.

Apparently he had zoned out because suddenly there was a polite coughing sound behind him and a voice chimed “Dr. Watson! What a surprise. Would you mind if I joined you?”

Looking up, John saw Noel White, one of the scientists that worked at Uni Corp standing next to his table. The man’s dark hair was damp and when John looked outside he could see it had started snowing again. His dark hair and coat made him look quite pale and the doctor in John wondered if Noel was feeling all right; he was looking somewhat sickly.

“Oh, no. Not at all,” John said and gestured to the seat opposite him. “I hadn’t expected to see you again so soon, Mr. White.” He said, looking at the other man as he sat down.

“Ah, yes, well. I was doing some last minute shopping,” Said Mr. White cheerily, motioning to the shopping bag he had been holding as he came in, “and since it was so cold I reckoned I might as well warm up a bit here. Then I saw you and thought I’d come by and say hello.”

John looked at the bag the other man had carried in. On the side of the bag was printed: _Ramón’s Vineyard, fine wines and spirits for all occasions_. ‘Well,’ John thought, ‘isn’t that convenient.

“You wouldn’t happen to know something about wine, would you?” John asked somewhat hopefully and Mr. White grinned at him.

It appeared that John was in luck. “My dear fellow,” came the reply, “you are in luck, I am quite the wine connoisseur if I do say so myself.”

“Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?” The man asked, and John shook his head.

“My landlady asked for a ‘good’ red wine, but I honestly have no idea what that really means…” John replied and shrugged.

“Well, then - you’re lucky to have bumped into me!” came the delighted reply, and Mr. White rattled off at least a dozen types, with John typing the names of each into his phone as a reminder.

\--- --- ---

About an hour later John found himself in Noel’s flat – the man had insisted that he be called Noel, and John wasn’t quite sure he was there again. He would’ve happily settled for a recommendation of a decent wine, but the other man had insisted he had to try out a particular type – one that you couldn’t get just anywhere it seemed.

He‘d seemed to take such pleasure in the prospect of John trying out the wine that the doctor had allowed himself be persuaded to come along.

“Please, Dr. Watson, have a seat.” The taller man had said.

“Oh, erm…” John uttered, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. This entire situation felt slightly surreal and somewhat like a come on.

“I don’t bite doctor,” Noel said with a smile. “and I assure you I am not trying to ‘hit on you’ for lack of a better phrase. I don’t swing that way.”

John felt a bit embarrassed; he hadn’t said a thing but apparently his discomfort had been quite obvious. He only felt slightly reassured by the other man though and sat down still feeling ill at ease.

  
John glanced around the flat. It was very modern and neat; clean white lines and neutral grey furniture. Various electrical gadgets littered the surfaces – John could only assume they were work related.

 _Sherlock would likely consider the man a blithering idiot_ , John thought affectionately as he listened to the distant sounds of Noel puttering about in the kitchen. As long as he wasn’t the recipient of his flat mate’s annoyance, it could be quite amusing to watch at times.

The other man returned shortly with two glasses of wine. “You absolutely must try this! It really is amazing.” He said as he offered John a glass. “You should drink at least half of the glass, “the other man said with a small smile, “it’s all about the way it goes down; it’s very pleasant in my opinion.”

John took a sip of the wine. It tasted rich and somewhat spicy and it did indeed go down quite nicely.

Their conversation was still on the topic of wine and which wines were best used on what occasions when John was starting to feel a bit flushed. The collar of his shirt was starting to feel a bit tight too, but he didn’t think too much of it.

This would be a horrible time of year to come down with the flu. He told himself as he laughed at a joke the other man had made, distantly aware that his head was beginning to pound.

“I really should be heading off, I’m afraid. I still have to get Mrs. Hudson that bottle of wine I promised her.” John said, moving to stand. As his perspective shifted, he felt a thrill of dizziness and nausea, and the pounding at his temples only increased. He inwardly cursed his bad luck at having caught a virus this close to Christmas – it seemed the most likely explanation - blinking hard as he wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. At least he only had one more item to buy before heading home – bed was looking like a good option, right now.

Suddenly a sick sense of understanding came to the forefront of his fuzzy mind. He was right to have thought he’d been having bad luck, but wrong about the outcome – his meeting with Noel White clearly hadn’t been one of coincidence, and certainly not lucky coincidence at that.

“Y-you.” He gasped. “You poisoned me!”

He felt his knees buckle beneath him and was powerless to stop himself from slumping down to the carpet, landing on all fours.

“That is entirely correct, Dr. Watson.” The other man replied in a jovial tone and finished off his own glass of wine, entirely unperturbed by John’s struggle for breath.

John tried to reach for his phone - he had to reach Sherlock or Lestrade somehow – but his grip slackened just as he pulled the device from his pocket, and it fell to the floor with a dull thud.

John’s last impression before succumbing to the tugging grip of overwhelming dizziness was of Noel towering over him, face contorted in a sickly grin. His vision faded to black and he found himself unconscious before his head even connected with the ground.

\--- --- ---

Their talk with Dr. Roberts [and the subsequent interviews] hadn’t been entirely useful, but Sherlock now had a chance of narrowing down the possible suspects - after all, all the evidence still pointed towards Uni Corp.

Sherlock was sure he had likely met the killer face to face - but he hadn’t been able to gather quite enough useful information to pin the murders to anyone in particular. For scientists, those people really were quite stupid in their answers – dumb and dull, but not to the extent where the killer was obvious, even to him. Of course he’d uncovered many meaningless facts and details that they’d tried to hide; he’d spotted office love triangles, financial problems, cheating spouses and the like - but nothing really useful. Sherlock sneered in distaste at the memory, didn’t these people have anything better to do than waste their lives in sex and gambling? Apparently not it seemed and now he was stuck trying to find the killer, who was smarter than he’d initially appeared to be, in amongst a workplace full of useless, ignorant cretins.

He had sent out a message to the homeless network upon leaving the building, instructing his helpers to gather more information on certain ‘interviewees’ for the lack of a better word.

Sherlock walked down the street briskly - he had a contact to meet and not even the slippery ground and the snow clinging to his shoes could slow him down. He wanted to know what his suspects had been up to - wanted to know their motives, even if they were likely moronic ones.

When he rounded the corner the woman was right where she said she’d be. Her orange scarf clashed horribly with her knitted cap and her coat was ratty. Next to her feet was a small tin where some people had thrown some change in.

“Spare change sir?” She asked and looked at him knowingly.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Came the swift reply and she pushed a folded piece of paper into his hand. He walked a little further down the street and hailed a cab.

The text scrawled in black ink on the paper, read:

  
 _Mary Holston, widow, husband deceased (December 26th 2009). Employed prior to death in scientific R &D . Cause of death: anaphylaxis . Holston actively slanders Delicatecious; husband's death the result of food catered by them at work Christmas party._

 _Carl Schrader - janitor at Uni Corp. Multiple recent scuffles with R &D personnel recently. Filed complaint against Dr. Peter Barlow after serious altercation; Barlow accused Schrader of sleeping with his wife and the situation escalated._

 _Noel White, lost fiancée (also Uni Corp worker) (December 26th 2009). Cause of death: [anaphylaxis]. White and Holly Frost had been colleagues at Uni Corp. White treated for nervous breakdown following the death of Frost. Psychological files evaluation (Dr A. Munroe) states he is fit for work again._

They were halfway back to Baker Street when Sherlock’s eyes widened as he tensed in the backseat of the cab. Of course! How could he have been so blind? He should’ve seen this before, especially after John had mentioned the wine to him. The girlfriend – fiancée, the favourite wine - the death - the mental breakdown!

That bottle of red wine - they'd found it at two of the crime scenes and Sherlock was sure that if he asked the other victims’ family or friends, the brand would turn up again.

When his phone buzzed, Sherlock didn’t waste any time and ordered the cabbie to turn around and head towards Clayton Crescent.

Whilst giving the cabbie directions that were shorter and not plagued by roadblocks, the detective also managed to text Lestrade. He also swallowed his pride and forwarded the message to his brother, knowing Mycroft's men could be on the scene long before London's finest.

 _Killer at 12 Clayton Crescent. John in danger. Hurry. – SH_

“Hurry up, man!” He ordered the bewildered looking cabbie.

It felt like the cab ride took forever and Sherlock found his stomach clenching with something approaching terror. He wouldn’t usually admit it, but the thought of losing John wasn’t a pleasant one at all and he was only the third person Sherlock didn’t dislike, or in John’s case, tolerated very well.

\--- --- ---

When Sherlock reached Noel White’s house several non-descript black sedans were already parked in the street and an ambulance was just pulling up outside, sirens cutting off a few seconds after the cab pulled to the curb.

Sherlock jumped out of the cab and promptly forgot to pay the cabbie, who seemed too focused on what was happening outside to notice his customer running off without paying.

It seemed White had been trying to leave when Mycroft’s men arrived and two men from the security detail had him handcuffed and were dragging him over to one of the sedans.

The medical personnel had taken the stretcher from the back of the ambulance and disappeared inside the house . When they came out with John’s still form Sherlock felt as if the blood in his veins had been replaced with ice. Then he saw White, who was looking straight at him with a big smirk plastered across his face.

Sherlock felt his lips move but he didn’t hear any sound. His vision blurred a bit around the edges and he saw red, lunging at the grinning bastard. It took three of his brother's men to restrain him, but he was satisfied to have felt a sickening crunch under his knuckles when his fist had connected with White's nose.

When he'd recovered enough to be able to see straight he commandeered one of Mycroft's cars and a driver to follow the ambulance. He had to see John, had to know he was still alive.

The drive to the hospital seemed to take forever. When they arrived the first thing Sherlock did was yell at the receptionist to tell him where Dr. Watson was. Having scared her enough, a nurse patiently pointed him in the direction of A&E and after that there was nothing he could do, he was informed, other than wait for news.

No matter how vehemently he demanded to see John, he was denied access and when a haggard looking doctor came out of the room fear gripped Sherlock’s heart. The vehemence of the feeling surprised him. He hadn’t felt anything like it before, hadn’t had to feel anything like it before. It certainly put an entirely new spin on his own diagnosis of being a highly functioning sociopath.

“Mr. Holmes?” he asked, sounding tired.

“Yes? How is he? He was poisoned - mistletoe. Have you been able to get it out of his system?” Sherlock shot back, feeling faintly nauseous himself.

“Dr. Watson... is in stable but critical condition. He'll need very close monitoring over the next forty eight hours to make sure there's no unseen damage. The poison may have had some lasting adverse effects; there _is_ the possibility of heart damage, but it's unclear if that'll be the case until we’re able to run further tests...” he trailed off.

By the time the doctor had finished telling Sherlock about John’s condition, Mycroft had appeared together with Mrs. Hudson, who was crying. Mrs. Hudson considered them both ‘her boys’, he knew, and the whole situation was hitting her hard.

Putting their childish feud aside for now, Mycroft rested a hand on his brother's shoulder and gave a general squeeze. Mrs. Hudson moved from clinging to Mycroft to grasp at Sherlock's shirt, sobbing. He put his arms around her awkwardly.

As they waited in silence, Sherlock swore he would make White’s life as miserable as possible if he ever got out of prison again.

  
\--- --- ---

When John woke up the world was blurry and unfamiliar. When the sharp antiseptic smell of a hospital hit him, he knew where he was immediately and memories started rushing back. Thinking about it made his head pound and he was afraid to open his eyes. As his senses returned with new clarity, he could hear sniffling in a corner and peered through his lashes, still dazed, but curious to find out who it was.

Mrs. Hudson was sitting in an uncomfortable looking hospital chair being ... comforted by Sherlock. Their landlady had red rimmed eyes and both she and Sherlock looked as though they hadn’t slept in a while. He opened his eyes a bit further and had to blink against as the bright lights made his head pound even harder.

He’d been aiming for a greeting when a ‘Nngggh’ escaped his lips and in an instant Sherlock was at his side and Mrs. Hudson was calling a nurse.

“John, you idiot.” Sherlock said, his normally stern face a picture of relief. Before he could say any more, however, looking relieved and before he could put in anything else, Mrs. Hudson was at his side as well.

“Don’t you ever do something like that ever again young man!” She said, trying to sound stern. Her sniffling undermined the effect entirely.

After that the news of John waking up seemingly spread like wild fire and soon Lestrade had visited, representing his team. Even Mycroft had stopped by and for once didn’t even trade snide remarks with his brother, leaving behind a nice fruit basket in lieu of an irritated Sherlock. He was quite tired by the time they had been shooed out of his room and promptly fell asleep.

When he woke up the next day, there was a small Christmas tree in the corner of his room and Mrs. Hudson beamed at him from her chair next to it.

“John dear, finally awake again.” She sounded tired and relieved and he knew she wouldn’t stop visiting until he was safely home again.

“Sherlock and I decided to bring these here,” she indicated the presents under the tiny tree, “so we could open them together. After all, you did sleep right through Christmas and you had us so worried!” She stopped at the sound of the door opening and motioned for his flatmate to hurry up.

“Sherlock, do hurry up. It’s draughty enough in here as it is.” Sherlock looked slightly rattled and Mrs. Hudson seemed to be the only person capable of doing that to him. Stepping inside he closed the door and took a seat at John’s bedside, next to their landlady.

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asked, concern still glinting in his eyes. John managed to smile tiredly at that.

“Terrible, thanks.” John replied, voice scratchy. Mrs. Hudson took that as the cue to distract her boys and gave them each a present to open.

In the end John had Sherlock open his for him, conserving energy and all that, but he could see the detective was secretly enjoying ripping off the wrapping paper. There was just something in his posture that screamed _secretly gleeful_ and it made both him and Mrs. Hudson smile.

Sherlock’s face as he unwrapped the working miniature model of the solar system was priceless as well; curiosity glinted in his eyes when the wrapping was still mostly on, turning to vague bafflement when he spotted the word ‘solar’ on the side and finally culminating in a pout when he realized what it was. John wished they could’ve taped it.

John considered the best present he'd received to be the news from the doctors that he'd made it through the ordeal with no lasting damage to anything vital.

Mrs. Hudson had left after that, looked pleased but exhausted after that, and made vague comments about tidying the flat before they returned, leaving them alone. Sherlock looked somewhat uncomfortable but then turned to John and said: “It would’ve been very bothersome to have had to find another medically qualified flatmate if circumstances hadn't worked out as they have.”

John grinned, inner Sherlock to human translator churning that statement out as something along the lines of 'I'm glad you didn't die'.

The detective continued, “Your gift wasn’t entirely inadequate either, it seems to hold some merit.”

John's grin broadened at that, and he relaxed contentedly back against the pillows as Sherlock returned to his seat, both of them sitting in companionable silence for the arrival of John's discharge papers.

\--- --- ---

When Sherlock finally broached the subject, John couldn’t help but listen with horror to his explanation of White’s motives for the murders.

“His fiancée died at last year’s corporate Christmas party,” Sherlock stated very matter-of-factly, “he had just asked her to marry him a week before it happened. The catering company responsible for the event was _Delicatecious_ and though they had received clear instructions about certain food products they weren’t allowed to use, they disregarded them entirely in favour of producing the dishes more cheaply. This caused the death of Ms. Holly Frost and Mr. Holston, both of whom were allergic to citrus.”

Sherlock frowned when he said: “Holston had insisted that Frost use his epi-pen instead as she had forgotten to bring one of her own, but they had administered it too late and she died at the hospital while Mr. Holston died in transit to the hospital.”

John assumed Sherlock was confused as to why somebody would offer another person their medicine if the person themselves needed it equally as badly. In the end it had even turned out to be a lose – lose situation.

“Uni Corp then threatened to sue _Delicatecious_ but the case was thrown out of court on negligence on Ms. Frost's part. Mr. White was overcome with guilt as he had been the one to liaise with the catering company for the event. For a while he went mad with grief and it was probably around then that he started setting up a plan for revenge.” Sherlock snorted derisively at this and John could see from the look on his face that the detective thought that the man was an idiot.

“The other scientists blamed him for what happened even though they never admitted it to his face. There were rumours, though, and he couldn’t handle them. When he was cleared for work again by a psychologist - another idiot, since he was obviously still unstable - he intentionally lured everyone into a false sense of security before acting. In his mad need for revenge, he first targeted the caterers before turning upon anyone he believed to have insulted him or accused him of blame for the allergy deaths."

John honestly couldn’t understand how anybody could be mad enough to kill and yet act so carefully as to strategically murder several people without detection and said as much, but Sherlock seemed to have an explanation for that, too.

“He liked the pain and suffering he caused; he had felt the loss of his fiancée deeply and he wanted other people to suffer in this same way..."

“Why did he choose poisoned wine as the murder weapon though?” John interrupted curiously.

Sherlock looked at him sharply before replying: “For a most sentimental reason; it had been the wine they´d been drinking on the night he'd proposed to his fiancée, and it was her favourite. In a way it was a reminder of her. A vengeful reminder.” He added, almost as an afterthought.

They lapsed into not-quite-silence after that and stayed that way until a nurse came and informed Sherlock that they had two next of kin forms for him to fill in at the front desk. For once, the sleuth barely protested, and that was something John was truly grateful for.

Alone again, John lay back against the pillows, marvelling at the fact that he'd survived yet another near death experience as part of his life at 221b. Everything had thankfully worked out for the best, but he couldn't help hoping that next year, he'd be able to spend it awake, surrounded by the people he cared about, back at the place he'd learnt to call home.

He closed his eyes, content in the knowledge that whatever future adventures might come, with Sherlock at his side, it was a good life. He fell asleep easily, still smiling.

 _fin_

 


End file.
